Cregan, the young lord, rose from his seat.
All the lords fell silent, watching Lord Stark seriously, waiting for him to speak.
Cregan reached behind his back and slowly drew the greatsword from over his shoulder.
Ice.
The Valyrian steel greatsword was five feet long and a hand's breadth wide, the blade rippling with light. House Stark had passed down this ancestral blade for thousands of years.
He raised the sword.
The firelight illuminated the blade, reflecting a cold light that shone on his young face.
"Since they give us no way to live," he said.
All watched him.
"Then we go to war."
His voice was not loud, but each word drove into every heart like a nail.
"I will lead the northern people to find a way to live."
He pressed the blade to his palm and drew it across.
Blood flowed out, streaming down the blade and dripping to the floor. He smeared the blood across his face—left to right, crimson red. His face was fierce, and a light burned in his eyes. It was the wolf's blood in his veins, boiling.
"Kill the false king!"
Cregan roared hoarsely.
The council chamber erupted in a deafening roar.
"Kill the false king!"
"Kill the false king!"
"Kill the false king!"
Old Maester Raymond stood in the corner, watching it all, and sighed quietly.
The lord has entered the war after all. The Iron Throne's hand was too ruthless. They have directly cornered the North, forcing it to turn over.
Was Aegon the Second a fool? Now Maester Raymond was certain: he was a true fool. He remembered the news from the Citadel. The southern kingdoms had begun organizing armies: Hightower had twenty thousand marching north, Lannister ten thousand, and the Crown still had ten thousand. If the Greens were ruthless, raising an army of a hundred thousand would not be difficult.
On the other side, Lady Jeyne of the Vale had begun summoning the Knights of the Vale. The Knights of the Vale were the finest in Westeros, clad in heavy armor and riding warhorses like moving fortresses. As long as they did not face dragons, the Knights of the Vale could destroy tens of thousands of soldiers. The Riverlords could also muster over ten thousand men.
How many would die in this war? He did not know. He only knew that for the Targaryens, many people were ready to kill.
The maester looked at Lord Cregan.
The young lord stood there, the air cold, the blood on his face now dried to streaks, his eyes resolute.
Old Maester Raymond remembered teaching Cregan since childhood. He had taught him history, arithmetic, and how to be a qualified lord. He remembered that as a child, Cregan had loved to ask: "Maester, why are the southerners so rich in food, while we in the North are so poor?"
The maester had always answered: "Because the land in the south is fertile and rich in produce."
Cregan would say: "Then why don't we rob them?"
He would always sigh: "Child, we cannot do that. We are lords—we protect the land and settle the people, not bandits."
Now Cregan would indeed take it. Not because he wanted to take it. But because if he did not march south to take it, the northern people would starve to death.
He saw Cregan turn his head and look at him.
"Maester Raymond."
Old Maester Raymond was slightly startled.
"All men between forty and sixty are to be conscripted," Cregan said calmly. "Tell them the Iron Throne is cutting off our food. If they do nothing, their families will starve to death this long winter."
He paused and continued.
"I am going to reform the Winter Wolves."
Old Maester Raymond felt a chill in his heart.
The Winter Wolves.
It was an old northern tradition. Before the Targaryens conquered the Seven Kingdoms, every long winter, the North would gather the old men who would not survive the winter, form them into the Winter Wolves, and send them south to steal food. These old men knew they would not live long, and they fought like berserkers so that their families might survive the winter.
Later, the Targaryens conquered the Seven Kingdoms and, to pacify the North, promised that the Crown would supply half the grain every long winter. The tradition of the Winter Wolves marching south to plunder gradually disappeared.
Now it was time to begin again.
"How many men can be raised?" Cregan asked.
Old Maester Raymond calculated in his heart. The North's population was small, but men between forty and sixty, all together...
"Thirty thousand," he said. "With the elites of each house, we can muster about thirty-five thousand."
Cregan nodded. "Each house will contribute a portion of their elite. Form a vanguard of five thousand to march to the Riverlands and join the army there. The rest of the Winter Wolves will follow."
The lords nodded one by one.
"Good."
"That's settled."
"We'll follow the lord's command."
Stark stood and smiled. "My lord, don't worry. I, of House Stark, will surely be at the front. My boys have wanted to fight for a long time—they've been idle at home, going mad."
Dustin slapped his chest. "I, Dustin, am no worse than anyone else. The cavalry of Barrowton are far stronger than southerners."
Lord Manderly sighed. "White Harbor's fleet can transport troops. As for marching grain... I will do my best to make up the shortfall."
Cregan looked at him. "Lord Wyman, I know White Harbor's granaries are tight. Give what you can. When the time comes, we will prioritize supplying you with food."
Manderly nodded and said no more.
Flint narrowed his eyes and smiled. "My lord, I've long wanted to try shooting at dragons."
Lady Mormont said in a hoarse voice, "The women of Bear Island can fight too. I will leave the women to guard the island, and bring the rest of the men with me."
All the lords looked at this lady with solemn respect. Her husband had died more than a decade ago, and she had supported the house alone. Bear Island was the northernmost island in the North, with the smallest population, and often the women had to go to battle.
Cregan looked at them, and an indescribable feeling rose in his heart.
Pride. Gratitude.
He could not say it. He simply nodded.
"Good."
Suddenly, Lord Lightwell spoke.
"My lord, there is one question."
Cregan looked at him. "What?"
"We march south. Where does the food come from?"
Silence fell over the council chamber for a moment.
This was the real problem. The army had to eat; the horses had to graze. Thirty thousand men marching south—the daily consumption of food was astronomical.
Cregan was silent a moment.
"Take it," he said.
All looked at him.
"Wherever we strike, take it," Cregan said. "The southerners' food is our food."
Dustin smiled. "That's the spirit."
Karstark clapped his hands. "Yes! Rob them, eat their food, and show them how mighty the northerners are!"
Lord Manderly hesitated. "My lord, this... might it provoke the southerners' wrath?"
Cregan looked at him. "Lord Wyman, if we do not take it, we northerners will starve to death. If we take it, the southerners will hate us. Which would you choose?"
Lord Manderly was speechless.
Cregan continued. "I also thought of neutrality, of negotiating with the Targaryens. But they would not allow it. They cut off our food and asked me to kneel and beg forgiveness."
He paused.
"Since they want to force us into a corner, let us go to war."
---
Old Maester Raymond stood in the corner, listening to these words with mixed feelings.
He remembered those old songs from the south, singing the history of the Winter Wolves marching south to plunder. In those ballads, the Winter Wolves were demons, plunderers, a nightmare that frightened the southerners.
But the ballads did not sing that these old men of the Winter Wolves had children at home to support. They did not sing that when they marched south, they were ready to die. They did not sing that each of them had a name, a family, a story.
Old Maester Raymond sighed.
He thought of the maesters in the Citadel, studying history, numbers, and ways to make the world better. But they could not understand how to let the northerners survive the long winter without relying on others.
---
Cregan looked at them all.
"My lords," he said, "this battle is not for me. It is for everyone in the North. It is so that our children may survive this winter. So that our wives do not watch us starve to death. So that our old folk do not have to walk into the snowstorms."
His voice dropped.
"So, please—all of you."
The lords were silent for a moment.
Then Karstark spoke.
"My lord, do not worry," he said. "We northerners never abandon our own."
Dustin nodded. "The southerners do not understand that. That is why they have lost so many times."
Flint narrowed his eyes and smiled. "Let them see what the North truly is."
Lady Mormont said in her hoarse voice, "When the fighting is done, I will treat you to a drink. The spirits of Bear Island are far stronger than those broken wines from the south."
The council chamber erupted in laughter.
Cregan laughed too.
But in his smile, there was a trace of bitterness.
He knew that many would not return.
But he had no choice.
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